


In a Day's Course

by herrcolonel (presidentwarden)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Banter, Breakfast, District 13, F/F, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Normal Life, Play Fighting, Routine, We've Got The Nukes: Pt. 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/herrcolonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little chronicle of District Thirteen events, mid-rebellion. Amidst the warfare, there's occasionally time for gentler, better things, like spending time with others. Johanna, in particular, finds there's a lot to be gained from the president's company.</p><p>Featuring a large assortment from D13's crew, as well as some newcomers.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Johanna sniffs the air, side-eyeing Coin. It’s been months since she smelled real coffee, but when it’s compared to the stuff they’re serving in the dining hall for breakfast, the difference is obvious. She reaches out to make a grab for it, but is stopped by a small hand on her wrist with an iron grasp. “Don’t.”</p><p>“You have coffee!”</p><p>“So?” Coin’s voice is even, but when her attention’s fixed on Johanna, a tiny smile threatens to overcome her efforts to suppress it. “It’s decaffeinated. That’s the best our food scientists could come up with. That strain will grow underground, but normal coffee won’t.”</p><p>“I don’t care. I want a taste.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Within the District, breakfast is taken in shifts. The tiered architecture of 13’s plunging elevator shafts and towering staircases simply can’t accommodate a horde of hundreds rushing down to the dining halls all at once. As Coin has put it, it would be a stampede. So, except for a select tier of lucky citizens ranked high enough that they may eat when they please, everybody takes part in a census about their preferred schedule. Then they’re sorted accordingly, and daily, they arrive in turns to partake in a breakfast made from District 13’s lab-grown cuisine. Free-range and organic it certainly isn’t, but it suits the job and the circumstances.

Unfortunately, this morning, Johanna arrives just at the shift change. When she shows up on her quest for breakfast, she’s relegated to elbowing her way through packs of grey-clad citizens as they flood out the doors, rushing to their chosen jobs and following their programmed schedules. Though the arm-stamped schedules seemed disconcertingly dystopian to Johanna on her first arrival at District 13, she learned soon enough that citizens choose their own schedules and groups. Compliance is expected, but aside from instances of necessary discipline, nothing is forced.

Coin has always been very particular in reinforcing this message to the former tributes, stressing the contrast between their new environment and the Capitol’s special prison. Conscious as ever of how the District’s regimented structure appears to outsiders, she’s still trying to make sure the underlying themes of free will and voluntary cooperation are clearly understood.

Johanna has this much to say in favor of the District: her captors definitely never served bacon and eggs.

She can smell it the minute she steps through the doors, grabbing a plate and fork along the way, and lifts her head to get a better whiff of the aroma. District 13’s agriculture and farming sections, buried deep underground, aren’t exactly great suppliers of real protein, but some of the new scientist arrivals have supposedly had some insights about how to correctly simulate beef and pork meats.

So Johanna saunters over to the food station that’s offering platters heaped high with a bacon-like substance. She takes her fork, spears a piece, lifts it to her mouth. Takes a bite.

It’s indistinguishable from the real stuff.

“Not bad.”

Two slices disappear into her gullet before she’s instructed to put some on her plate and keep going along the line, ushered along by stern foodservice workers who clearly aren’t pleased about Johanna’s disruption of the tightly managed schedule. She grabs some other stuff along the way -- donuts, pancakes, a heaping ladleful of syrup -- and, along the way, feels a familiar presence at her side, half a foot taller than her and not quite light on his feet enough to escape detection.

She doesn’t even turn to greet him, just takes a bite out of one of the donuts, chewing loudly. “Hey, Neptune.”

“Hey, Jojo.” Dressed in 13-style casuals rather than outlandish Capitol wear, Finnick’s still a commanding presence, trident hanging at his side and a metallic band glinting at his wrist. On his plate, he’s got some sort of omelette concoction. It probably has fish in it, knowing Finnick’s tastes: stereotypical as ever for a District 4 native. He ribs Johanna gently with the nickname she hates, tapping her shoulder. “You want some pancakes with your syrup there?”

“Knock it off, I need my sugar fix too.” She scans him head to toe, taking stock of his new weaponry, and notes his radiant expression. Gone is the old, morose Finnick, or at least that side of him’s well concealed underneath the bliss of reunion with his beloved Annie. Rumor has it that a wedding’s in the works. Johanna wouldn’t even be surprised. “You gonna be alright with your omelette, or do you want me to go fishing for you in the ponds aboveground so I can catch you something raw?”

“No thanks, I’m actually enjoying the comforts of civilization.” Finnick scoops up an orange from a bowl of fruit and tucks it into his pocket for later. Technically, food isn’t supposed to be taken out of the dining halls, but for the former Tributes, everybody turns a blind eye. That’s how Coin refers to them, as “former Tributes” rather than “victors”. It emphasizes the severity of the Games while reminding one and all that nobody truly wins. “You wanna come sit with me and Annie? Vict-- former Tributes get a table all to ourselves. I asked earlier and they said yes.” His expression turns contemplative. “I’ve got more freedom here than in the Victor’s Village. Outfits aren’t as fancy, but still.”

“True, but that’s not saying much.” Johanna fills a mug with District 13’s best coffeelike beverage, which isn’t quite as convincingly fake as the bacon, but provides her with the fix of caffeine she needs. Some agitation and community organizing from Effie got the District’s  Council to approve a daily allowance of ‘coffee,’ and Johanna has to admit, the general mood has improved ever since. “Actually, ask me tomorrow. I’ve got plans this morning.”

“Plans? What kind of plans do _you_ have?” Finnick follows her out of curiosity, his plate balanced on one open palm like a skilled waiter. The dining hall awaits through a set of wide doors, vast and concrete and gray, sturdy pillars supporting its roof with TV screens mounted on them that display daily news broadcasts. It’s all very industrial. The benches are octagonal slabs of sturdy plastic that resemble picnic tables. At one of them, Haymitch and Effie chat together, the contrast between bright bubbly cheer and chronically disgruntled sarcasm visible even from across the room. Katniss and her family -- the mother, the sister, the rebel herself -- sit at another bench, discussing something in hushed voices.

At one time, Johanna wouldn’t have hesitated to go join them. But not anymore.

“The kind of plans you don’t get to be part of. Go sit with your fiancée.” And she gently shoves Finnick in the arm, hardly enough of a push to even draw his irritation, and gets a light breezy laugh for her efforts. Finnick agrees, and strolls off to a nearby table to join a small young woman with a mane of red hair who’s absent-mindedly pushing the food around on her plate with a fork, muttering to herself.

Johanna pities and envies Finnick, all at once.

But her target isn’t on this side of the room. She glimpses the President immediately, easily distinguishable by her silver mane and small stature, boldly standing out from the group who’s joined her at the table of her choice. No one else in the District has hair like that. At some point, this had led Effie to wonder if the style had been copyrighted by presidential authority, but the answer, apparently, is no.

Beetee, Boggs, and Gale, the usual suspects minus Plutarch, have joined Coin at her table. They’ve got a mess of file folders spread out in front of them; Beetee’s scribbling on a pad of graph paper, and Boggs is sitting silently, paying diligent attention. Rumor has it his memory is photographic. Gale’s just hanging onto Coin’s every word, sitting at her elbow. Now and then he jots on a notepad, but his eyes never leave the president’s face.

Johanna narrows her eyes.

It’s hard to insert herself into the scene without seeming like a blatant disruption, but she strides over to the table casually, setting her plate of food at an empty space on the table right beside Coin. The mug of coffee substitute is starting to cool down, so she swigs it in one gulp once she’s comfortable at the bench: a glorious display of lumberjack manners. Then she nudges Coin in the side gently, which is a slightly impolite tactic for getting the president’s attention. “Hey, Madame Prez. Good morning. How ya doin’?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Johanna.” Coin’s tone is clipped, but polite. Until she reaches a certain point of outright anger, she’s unfailingly calm and remarkably tactful when interacting with anyone outside her circle of confidants. But Johanna’s getting a hint of frustration here, which must mean Coin trusts her enough to be more authentic. That’s good, at least. “We’re just struggling with some resource allocation.”

“Yeah?” This doesn’t mean anything to Johanna until she gets a look at some of the files on the table, and pieces together the problem to some rudimentary extent. But she still doesn’t quite trust her instincts. It can’t be as serious as she thinks it is. “What’s up?”

Gale eagerly volunteers to explain, leaning over past Coin to get a look at Johanna. “We have more refugees than we can afford to house and feed long-term. We need to train them and send them back to their Districts. If they’re not properly prepared, it’d be suicide to put them into combat, but they can’t stay here permanently.”

“Right.” Beetee looks up, inspecting Johanna owlishly through his glasses. “But we don’t have enough weapons to distribute to them, so they need to have some basic familiarity with necessary jobs that don’t just include fighting. Sabotage, infiltration, the works. We’ll give them all basic toolkits suited to their district, and a communicator apiece.”

So it _is_ as serious as Johanna thought. She shoves a piece of bacon into her mouth and chews thoughtfully, resting her chin in her hands. It’s a hell of a problem. Too bad she can’t really help with anything except hands-on tasks, and moral support, maybe. “Where are you going to get all the parts for that stuff?”

“That’s another one of the problems.” Beetee taps one of his graph paper pads with the tip of his pen, showing off some diagram that doesn’t make much sense to the decidedly non-scientific Johanna. “We have all the circuitry we need right here, but it’s installed in other devices. We might need to initiate a buy-back program for citizens’ communicuffs.”

“Here, you can have mine.” Gale unstraps the device with lightning ease, dropping it onto the table. “I don’t ever use it, anyway. And if you need to get in touch with me, you always know where I am.”

“Thank you, Soldier Hawthorne, but you won’t need to give up your cuff.” Coin’s almost amused by Gale’s hyper-compliance, but her tone remains stern, a veiled message of _put it back on._ This Gale does immediately, attaching it to his wrist again. “We’ll reimburse everyone who chooses to turn in their devices. Citizens only, no soldiers. Communications are essential for us.”

“Course they are. I mean, if we get _really_ low on supplies, we could always use the tin-can and string method for phone calls.” Johanna snorts at her own joke, then scans the four blank faces. “Come on. None of you ever did that? Is that a District 7 kid thing?” Nothing but puzzled expressions. “Aw, never mind.” Humor gone unappreciated, once again. Johanna’s learned to mask difficulties with acid sarcasm and awful puns. “Anyway, if there’s anything I can do to help, lemme know.”

“Just keep training. We’ll need you as a group leader.” Boggs finally raises his voice, speaking in short sentences that correspond with his habits of military brevity. As Beetee takes an unseen cue from Coin and starts gathering up the papers spread on the table, Boggs and Gale rise in unison, attuned to signals from the past several months of training. Boggs does take a moment to lean over the table, looking between Johanna and her heaping plate of calories. “Go to the Special Weapons facility today.”

And he doesn’t explain why or offer any further clarification at all, just leaves with his empty plate and glass, Gale following close behind with his crossbow slung over his back. Johanna wonders to herself, what kind of guy brings his crossbow to breakfast?

Probably the same kind of guy that brings a _trident_ to breakfast. And Johanna would have been lying if she said she didn’t consider bringing her axe, save for the expectation that she’d be dining in polite company.

She supposes they’re all the same type after all. Soldiers in the Mockingjay army.

Beetee tucks the file folders under his arm, bids the President a gracious farewell, and departs, powering up his wheelchair with a flick of the finger on its small controller pad. That leaves just Coin and Johanna, sharing a breakfast alone together for the first time.

Johanna settles into her seat with a wide, satisfied grin.

She rests her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, shoveling pancakes into her mouth and just watching Coin in a moment of silence. The contrast between the two’s breakfast choices couldn’t be more vast. Coin’s currently nibbling on a slice of buttered toast, her manners as impeccable as ever. She’s also opted for a small bowl of oatmeal, half a grapefruit, and a cup of something that looks suspiciously like… _coffee._

Johanna sniffs the air, side-eyeing Coin. It’s been months since she smelled real coffee, but when it’s compared to the stuff they’re serving in the dining hall for breakfast, the difference is obvious. She reaches out to make a grab for it, but is stopped by a small hand on her wrist with an iron grasp. “Don’t.”

“You have _coffee!”_

“So?” Coin’s voice is even, but when her attention’s fixed on Johanna, a tiny smile threatens to overcome her efforts to suppress it. “It’s decaffeinated. That’s the best our food scientists could come up with. That strain will grow underground, but normal coffee won’t.”

“I don’t care. I want a taste.”

“No, you don’t. It’s black coffee.”

“What. _Why_ are you drinking decaf _black coffee?!_ Is that some kind of self-torture, or am I missing out on the hidden benefits?”

Coin sighs, inspecting the cup ruefully. “I’m cutting back on my sugar.”

“Stay away from Finnick, then.” Johanna laughs and settles back again, her uniform disappointingly ill-fitting as she shifts in her seat. She much prefers the exercise wear she’s been allowed to wear around the District, but today she’d worn one of her uniform-style outfits, provided pro bono by 13’s supply stock, in the hopes of impressing Coin. Somehow. Johanna searches for something more to say to keep the conversation going, but instead splutters out an awkward “So what else is new?”, an uncharacteristic lapse of her easy-flowing wit.

Coin doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. _Her_ uniform fits perfectly, a grey jumpsuit whose tone flawlessly matches her hair. Citizens at District 13 are allowed to wear outfits other than the standard grey, but only if they obtain the materials themselves. Coin, however, defies expectations, and never wears anything other than a permutation of the uniforms. She doesn’t want to appear more privileged than the citizens she governs. “Well, we’re working on several new District 13 emblems.” And she indicates the shoulder of her cloth blazer, where a small applique patch has been hastily pinned in place. The design follows the pattern of the District seals, but features a simple nuclear logo instead of any of the intricate designs seen elsewhere in Panem. “We’re aiming for simplicity instead of complex style. It’d be a good reminder to the other Districts about our power and purpose.”

“I like it.” Johanna’s expression cracks into a wide grin. “District 13: We’ve Got the Nukes.”

“Very much so.” Coin matches her smile, brushing her hair out of her face as she turns to get a closer look at Johanna. “You look well-rested. I’m glad.”

“Do I?” Johanna barely even glanced in the mirror long enough to brush her hair this morning; she’d tousled the untidy short mess with her fingers and dashed out the door. Makeup wasn’t ever going to happen. “You look great. You _always_ look great. Dunno about me.”

“You seem healthier than ever.” And Coin’s hand rests gently on Johanna’s shoulder, almost a caressing touch, before she returns to eating. She finishes off the oatmeal surprisingly quickly -- theoretically a violation of her proper etiquette, but Johanna’s still impressed by the pure grace this woman displays in her every action.

Then she realizes she’s been sitting rapturously for a minute, watching the president of District 13 eat breakfast. _Get it together, Johanna._

“Thanks. I’m working on it. How’d _you_ sleep?” Her voice has a pointed edge to it. Coin still hasn’t disclosed where in the base her quarters are located, and Johanna would like nothing more than to spend the night, but apparently that’s off-limits for now. “I hate trying to sleep, but whatever your doctors are giving me lately is doing a pretty good job.”

“I slept… adequately.” Coin sips her coffee, clearly disliking the pure bitterness, but manages to keep a straight face anyway. “I’ve been struggling with that too, but not for the same reasons as you, I’d assume. Do you have nightmares?”

“Yeah.” Johanna stuffs half a donut into her mouth, mumbling through the crumbs. “Like you wouldn’t _believe.”_

“I just can’t stay asleep.” Coin hates divulging any sort of weakness, but it’s been an ongoing problem, and Johanna might as well know. “I wake up fearing something’s gone wrong, fall asleep once I realize nothing’s the matter, and the cycle repeats itself. I’m fine, of course, but--” She gestures, frustrated. “It’s irritating.”

Leave it to Coin to dismiss a serious problem like that as ‘irritating’. Johanna scoots closer, finishing off the last few bites on her plate and then leaning in towards the president. “You gotta do something about that. I’m just telling you, I’m pretty sure I could find some ways to help.” One hand comes up to rest on Coin’s shoulders, massaging gently. “You wanna come spend some time in Special Weapons this afternoon? It’s gonna be fun. Lots of axe-throwing.”

“That’s not really my area of expertise.” Coin ponders thoughtfully, stirring her coffee with a spoon. She leans into Johanna’s touch, ever so imperceptibly, but it’s just enough to bring an outright grin to the younger woman’s face. When she speaks again, Johanna is fully attentive, hanging onto her every word just a little. “Yes, I’ll be there. If nothing else, I should supervise the soldiers’ progress.”

 _“Sweet._ Most days lately it’s been chaos lately. You’ll love it.” And Johanna can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment when Coin finally detaches herself from her companion’s grasp, standing up and buttoning up the jacket hanging loosely around her shoulders. But she’s being stupid again, and realizes it, tempering her discontentment with the knowledge of an event to look forward to that afternoon. “You gotta go, huh? See you later, Prez.”

Coin graces her with a small but radiant smile. “Yes, but not for long.” She removes her plate, but leaves the cup of coffee, gently sliding it across the table towards Johanna. “It’s for you now. Feel free to add cream and sugar.” Her fingertips brush across the gray fabric of Johanna’s uniform shoulder, reassuring and electrifying. “I’ll see you later, Miss Mason.”

Johanna sits in enraptured silence, cup of coffee clutched between her hands, watching the slight sway of Coin’s stride as she departs.

This is getting to be a very bad habit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another sample of D13 life for Johanna, featuring verbal sparring with Finnick, actual sparring with President Coin, and an assortment of new recruits for the civilian army (courtesy of Panem Rising).
> 
> One key rule in this war: don’t underestimate your opponent.
> 
> \- - -
> 
> “You know what? You need to spend less time with Plutarch. He’s got you talking like you’re putting on a play.” And as Coin reaches towards the wall to remove the sliced-up picture of Snow, Johanna protests loudly. Not just because she likes having the target practice, but because she’s pretty sure wadded-up chewed gum isn’t a permitted adhesive. “Hey. I was using that!”
> 
> “Yes, but we do have rules. Official Capitol imagery isn’t supposed to be reproduced nor displayed. It’s bad for morale.” Coin does pause, though, when Johanna clears her throat, waiting with a marker in hand. “What?”
> 
> “Lemme make it unofficial imagery.” And Johanna deftly scrawls a pair of devil horns onto Snow’s head, capping the marker again and tucking it back into her pocket. Arms folded, she steps back to survey her creation. Now, as Cressida would say, it’s the pinnacle of postmodern art, an official propaganda photo marred by disrespectful strokes of a pen.

 

In District 13, where everything is minimal to the point of being cramped, the special weapons center is comparatively massive. Other such training centers that Johanna’s seen firsthand would surely dwarf the District’s own, but the sturdy reinforced structure, with its concrete walls and racks of weapons and trio of large scoreboard-style targets, feels like home now. There are fluorescent-lit lanes for the target practice, and small balconies at either end of the room, and though the areas besides the practice lanes used to be occupied by stacks of boxes and weapon paraphernalia, they’ve been cleared off to make floor space.

Johanna’s also got to give credit to the hygiene and sanitation around here. It would be easy for a space like this to become mildewy and damp and rotting, especially with the stench of human sweat that inevitably fills this place after a couple hours of training, but every morning it’s fresh and clean again, smelling like a mix of fragrance and bleach. Judging from the crowds in here, it’s going to need double the dose of disinfectant tonight. She scans the group, spotting at least two familiar faces, a couple of acquaintances, and some new recruits she doesn’t even recognize. More are sitting at the sidelines, catching their breath and tuning up their weapons.

The place is _packed._

Some have chosen to wait their turn in the balconies, others are up there for a specific purpose: they’re operating a pulley system with Peacekeeper dummies, providing some real target practice. Some enterprising tailors have provide accurate copies of the PK uniforms attached to sewn and stuffed body forms. By the time Johanna takes stock of the headcount, they’ve dropped a new dummy, it’s been sliced and pierced and stabbed, and now they’re hauling it right back up, its synthetic body dangling limply from the rope around its neck. The system’s operated by a petite jumpsuited young woman with a nametag that proclaims her identity, Alectra Cogan from District 3. Mandatory nametags during training for the first week; Boggs’s orders. Johanna throws the woman a quick salute, which she returns with a polite nod of the head, calling down to the new arrival on the ground. “Were you looking for any kind of Peacekeeper in specific, or will the standard model do?”

“Me? Nah, I’m not gonna do that right away. Just give me a little time for normal target practice.” Johanna’s surprised by the offer, especially considering that the lady standing next to her, a tall willowy figure hesitantly clutching a sniper rifle, swallows hard at that comment. When Alectra’s attention has turned back to the jury-rigged pulleys (currently attached to a Peacekeeper commander dummy, which Finnick is vigorously skewering with his trident), Johanna turns and inspects her new acquaintance, hands on her hips. “So what’s up with you?”

Before she can answer, a closer look at the woman’s nametag yields a name, Thalia Estivus, and a job description, Sniper, the latter which she’s apparently inscribed by hand -- a poor decision, considering the anti-Peacekeeper hostility within the District. Johanna sizes her up, and laughs. “Lemme guess, they tried to fit you in one of those dummy suits and do some live target practice. You a fast runner? Better hope so.”

The sniper grips her rifle more bravely, bolstering her own confidence. “Only when I’m running away from my former squadron.”

“Hey, good job. Made it this far, right?” When the woman nods, Johanna pats her on the shoulder and saunters off to the weapons rack, athletic shoes leaving slight indentations on the springy floor mat. Her axe is in its usual place, gleaming and untouched, but a small note has been stuck to the handle, featuring Beetee’s small handwriting. She plucks it off and reads. _I’ve made you an automatic weapon retrieval wrist cuff, like Finnick’s. Just be cautious with it. Don’t overuse the feature._

Typical Beetee, to warn about the pitfalls of his own inventions.

The cuff’s been carefully draped over the handle of the axe, and Johanna unclasps it, clipping it around her small wrist. As she hoists the weapon, she offers a verbal thanks to Beetee, who isn’t even here right now; force of habit. One of the lanes has emptied out, occupied immediately beforehand by twin ex-Peacekeeper brothers of clearly differing ranks (to which Johanna mutters ‘awkward’ under her breath), and Gale and Finnick are still having a duel to see who can mutilate the PK dummies most efficiently. So Johanna strides right down the empty lane, pulls out a crumpled print-out from her pocket, and smooths it out, tacking it to the target surface with a wad of chewing gum.

She backs up, winds up, hurls the ax with deadly precision, and it soars -- arcing through the air, its blade sinks deep into the target and the paper. A small scoreboard lights up: perfect ten.

Now the printed picture of President Snow has a nice deep slice right through its throat.

Johanna taps a button on the cuff, flicks her wrist, holds out her hand -- the ax soars right back to her, handle first. It’s a feature that could really hurt somebody. _Good._ Again she heaves and flings, going more for vicious force than graceful accuracy, but seconds after the blade finds its mark again, a tiny bullet hole pierces the sheet, right through Snow’s forehead.

She turns to the side, now noticing her lane partner. It’s the same ex-PK from before, dutifully ignoring the dummy massacre going on overhead. Johanna’s expression shifts to a sarcastic grin, eyebrows lifting a little. “Good shot. Hope you never made that with anybody real.”

The sniper’s expression dims a bit. “I never had to. I was just bad enough that I didn’t make any actual kills in my career, but good enough that they kept me in their ranks. It was a nice arrangement.”

“Was it really, huh? I dunno, maybe if they paid me a million coins a year, I’d be glad to work for a despot, but with a Peacekeeper’s salary, it sure doesn’t seem worth it.” A thought occurs to Johanna. “On the other hand, if they paid me in Coins-- never mind.” She can just see the confused expression on her acquaintance’s face. “Keep shooting.” And she lifts and flings the axe in a fluid motion, landing slightly off center. It puts a nice gash in Snow’s teeth, marring that devil smile.

She curses lightly and recalls it to her hand, trying again, and again, and again until she’s made a streak of five perfect-10 axe blows in the scoreboard. In the meantime, the sniper -- Thalia -- keeps filling the target with a precise pattern of bullets. When she stops to reload, Johanna looks over at her and laughs a little. “Nice thing about axes, they don’t need refills.”

“I suppose not.” Thalia’s clearly not a very good conversationalist, and she knows Johanna can tell, but Johanna’s still trying, so she feels the need to make a better effort. Hair tied back in a ponytail, she looks more at home in the District 13 jumpsuits than any other of the ex-PKs. “You’re Mason, right?”

“The one and only. District 2 name for a District 7 face.” Johanna clips her axe back to her belt, smirking. “So you’re part of the lucky thirteen percent, those famously rare Peacekeeper ladies. What district did they put you in? Did you luck out and get the land of luxury, or were you stuck out there with the livestock?”

“Neither. I was assigned to Three.” The sniper glances up nervously to the balcony, catching sight of the engineer, who just stares down at her. Clearly there’s some hard feelings there. “I was the only woman in my squadron, and one of the youngest. It took me a long time to get promoted. That’s why I stayed. I thought if I worked hard enough, I’d earn their respect, and a decent pension. There certainly wasn’t any place for me in my home district.” Her voice is quiet. Another bullet between Snow’s eyes. “Needless to say, I was wrong. But many Peacekeepers are like me. Real citizens who made mistakes. We have lives, too.”

“Yeah?” Johanna laughs cruelly, glancing over at scene in the adjoining practice lane. One of Finnick’s trident throws has actually severed the rope holding up the PK dummy, sending it toppling face first to the ground like a skewered ragdoll. “Well, that one sure doesn’t.”

Thalia’s expression fades into distaste, and without a word, she gets up and strides away.

Oops. Johanna watches her go with a slight frown. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, that was in bad taste. Don’t interrupt the ex-Peacekeepers when they’re trying to be sincere.” Finnick leans over the divider rail, trident in hand and a weary grin on his face. He’s drenched with sweat now, a loose mesh top clinging to his toned upper body. “They’ve had it tough enough from everybody, trust me. I’m always one of the ones giving them trouble about it. Not sure they can handle _you.”_

She sizes Finnick up critically. “Geez. You look like Triton’s sleazy second cousin right now. Take a shower.”

He strikes an exaggerated heroic pose, trident and all, and checks himself out in a mirror on the other side of the room. “I think I see the comparison, but it’s not quite right without a net draped around my shoulders. It needs that extra touch of class.”

“Steal some of Effie’s new fishnet stockings. That’s close enough.” Johanna found out about those the other day through some timely eavesdropping. Apparently a young retailer escaped from District 1 with a bag full of fancy shoes, lingerie, and other similarly useless acquisitions. Upon her arrival, these were promptly redistributed among the high-ranking ladies of the District, none of whom even _liked_ those kinds of clothes, so it all went to Effie at the end of the day. Johanna snorts at her own joke, then returns her attention to Finnick. “Tell me about our new buddies. Who’s who?”

“Gale knows them better than me.” But Gale’s busy dragging the mutilated Peacekeeper dummy off to be repaired and sewn up, the work of a studious-looking little girl sitting on the sidelines, so Finnick takes it upon himself to explain, pointing out each stranger in turn. “Fancy-looking guy with the sword is Gustave Lyons. District 1. Hair stylist. We found him trying to fight off a pack of Peacekeepers with shards of a broken mirror.”

“Good for him. Did he win?”

“Not a chance. But we did, and we saved his ass.” Finnick gestures to the pair of twin ex-PKs, lounging by the wall now. “Hadrian and Rufa Septimus. One of them’s a commander, the other’s a cadet. Don’t ask me which is which, and _don’t_ mistake them for each other. Honestly, just don’t talk to them. They’re a little too good with bombs.”

“Got it.” Johanna focuses in on a buxom female figure who’s training with throwing knives, flicking them at her target like darts. Despite the gray uniform, she’s got a bauble tied up in her hair that looks like grapes, of all things. “Who’s that one?”

“Cordia Keefe. Vintner from District 1. Escaped by getting the Head Peacekeeper drunk and stealing his ID and uniform. Got through because the PK helmet hid her face. Arrived in the fanciest red dress I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how.” Finnick lets out a low whistle of respect. “She brought a couple bracelets too, which Effie claimed.”

Johanna snorts. “Might as well make that a new rule in here. The Effie Tax.”

“Bring it up to Coin. I’m sure she’d have something to say about it, if the suggestion’s coming from you.”

She winces. She’s known Finnick’s going to say something eventually, and turnabout is fair play, but _still._ It’s not the nature of her interest that’s embarrassing, just the hilariously low odds of it actually happening, a fact of which Johanna does not like to be reminded. “Knock it off.”

“No, I mean it. Hey, you’re making good progress.” The understanding of what sort of progress Johanna is intending to make remains, thankfully, unspoken. Finnick’s judicious about these things, and he’s provoked Johanna as much as she needs for a proper bit of sibling-style motivation. “Let’s forget about it for now. You want to duel?”

“Nah, I might take out some of my rage on one of those PK dummies. It looked really tempting earlier, but I don’t want my first impression on the newbies to be ‘that psycho chick with an axe.’” Which is inevitable, but Johanna can at least make it a little less severe. Her bangs are starting to fall into her face, so she brushes them back with a careless hand, sweat making the strands at her forehead spike up. “Too late for that now, though. You go shower. And ask Effie about the stockings, I dare you. Tell her you need some netting for one of the propos.”

“No way. She’d actually do it, and what am I gonna do with fishnet stockings? My days of modeling are over, Jojo. You keep forgetting.”

“How could anybody forget? You’re just lucky you have good aim. Makes for a nice second career.” She shoves him gently in the shoulder, making him clutch his arm in exaggerated, feigned agony. “Get going.”

Finnick protests jokingly, but bids her a theatrical farewell and turns to swagger away, using his trident like a walking stick. “As you wish, Governor Mason.”

It’s only by the grace of some higher power that he doesn’t run face first into Coin.

Neither has been looking where they’re going. Coin had her eyes on the balcony up above, watching the Peacekeeper dummies as they’re unceremoniously hauled along by the ropes, and Finnick was glancing back, preparing to throw another pithy retort back at Johanna. But miraculously one or the other sidesteps, and they apologize, and carry on.

Finnick only pauses to catch Johanna’s eye and wink.

Johanna grimaces, mussing up her hair again from where it’s flattened out by sweat. She doesn’t present a pretty picture right now, and unlike Finnick, she can’t just step out of the room for a shower and come back gleaming and radiant. The consequence of the Capitol’s water torture still leaves her reluctant towards anything but sponge baths. Nevertheless, when Coin’s glancing at her with arched eyebrows and a small, amused smile, Johanna tries to preen a little, repairing her slightly disgusting appearance for the president’s benefit. “Hey. I’m gonna go ahead and guess you’re not here to help me wreck one of those PK dummies.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to the chance, but not right now. I’m slightly out of practice with most weapons.” This is something Coin will have to fix, but she’s reluctant to try to claim space in the weapons room this week. There are other, lower ranking recruits who desperately need to train in order to be useful, so they take priority. “But perhaps later I can make time.” She steps closer. With their built-in heels, the utility boots she’s wearing manage to equate her height and Johanna’s, so they face each other evenly. Coin allows a gracious smile, catching her eye. “Are you enjoying the improved axe? Beetee mentioned his designs to me.”

“This? Yeah, it’s the greatest.” Not taking her eyes off Coin, Johanna casually whips out the axe and tosses it from hand to hand, her peripheral vision and sharp reflexes making sure the demonstration doesn’t end in disaster. Coin stands still and unflinching even in the face of Johanna’s blatant disregard for safety, which brings a grin to the former tribute’s face. “I’m loving the wrist cuff. That’s gonna help with efficiency.”

“Of course.” Coin calmly brushes past her to make her way down the target lane, their shoulders touching briefly. “Just don’t make any needless murders in your Capitol mission.”

Johanna follows with long strides. “So you think I’m going to get picked to go?”

“I _know_ you’re going to get chosen. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I need someone dependable.”

“Yeah, I bet you tell that to all the recruits.” But Johanna’s eyebrows inch higher with interest, and she outright grins at Coin’s response of ‘only the best ones.’ “You know, someone else with different priorities might want to keep me here so I don’t make a complete disaster.”

“I’m counting on a disaster. The more of a spectacle Snow’s capture turns out to be, the more his administration will be humiliated. All focus will be on the Mockingjay, of course, but we need a strong supporting cast.”

“You know what? You need to spend less time with Plutarch. He’s got you talking like you’re putting on a play.” And as Coin reaches towards the wall to remove the sliced-up picture of Snow, Johanna protests loudly. Not just because she likes having the target practice, but because she’s pretty sure wadded-up chewed gum isn’t a permitted adhesive. “Hey. I was using that!”

“Yes, but we do have rules. Official Capitol imagery isn’t supposed to be reproduced nor displayed. It’s bad for morale.” Coin does pause, though, when Johanna clears her throat, waiting with a marker in hand. “What?”

“Lemme make it _un_ official imagery.” And Johanna deftly scrawls a pair of devil horns onto Snow’s head, capping the marker again and tucking it back into her pocket. Arms folded, she steps back to survey her creation. Now, as Cressida would say, it’s the pinnacle of postmodern art, an official propaganda photo marred by disrespectful strokes of a pen. “Is that better?”

“Much.” Coin can’t help but grin. Snow hates having his image defamed or his reputation tarnished, and it’s clear Johanna’s picked up on this little detail very quickly, rebelling in even the most minor ways that Snow won’t possibly ever see. It speaks to her broader mindset in very encouraging ways. “As a form of satire, that sort of imagery’s perfectly acceptable. Speaking of imagery, Cressida wants y--”

“No.” Johanna has to lay down the law. She absolutely recoils at the thought of being dressed up and shoved in front of a greenscreen like before. Honestly, she’d rather taste-test a hundred of the District’s awful synthetic meat prototypes than wear a single one of Effie’s stylish propo-outfit designs. She wonders, briefly, about the best hiding places in D13, but abandons the thought; she’s not _that_ kind of coward. “Hey. _No more propos._ I am not doing that shit one more time. No way, no how, not if you--”

“Ahem.” Coin manages to get a word in edgewise, offering one more crucial selling point alongside a gentle smirk. “The propo was going to feature us together. ”

Johanna pretends to contemplate the pros and cons for all of two seconds. A _propo_ with _Coin._ Anyone would kill for that chance, and Johanna’s got significantly more personal investment in the idea. “Okay, you got me. One more. Pretty sure I can manage.” Now _this_ is the opportunity she’s been looking for. What a message she’ll get to send to Snow when he’s sitting there in his mansion of splendor, watching District 13’s broadcasts through a TV screen -- a captive audience to the rebellion propos. How the tables have turned.

But before the discussion can proceed further, Johanna gently slips her arm through the crook of Coin’s elbow, ungracefully tugging her out of the target lane to make room for a buff agriculturist who’s patiently waiting in line with a scythe. He directs a crooked smile at the president and her companion; Johanna returns it, but Coin does not, settling for a quizzical raised eyebrow instead. Rather than commenting on the contrast in their moods, Johanna just takes a seat on one of the empty mats, folding herself into a cross-legged position and patting the space beside her for the president to join.

This Coin does, but less enthusiastically than the athletic Johanna, sitting forward with her arms wrapped around her knees. She’s conducting her quiet, critical analysis of the room’s other occupants. There’s not much to say. They’re almost all past Reaping age, healthy-looking young Panem residents from a scattered assortment of districts. Most are proficient with weapons, some possess other useful skills. All are willing to fight for the cause.

As citizen armies go, Coin’s been granted a fairly good one.

Johanna prods her in the shoulder to start the conversation up again, disliking the silence. When Coin’s quiet, it’s usually intentional, to mask her thoughts. Johanna prefers openness at all times, often to the point of blunt honesty -- and there’s no reason to start asking for answers. “So, what kind of propo is Cressida gonna do with us?”

“One moment, please.” Somebody is chattering in her ear, a digital stream of nonsense. Coin _hates_ the disruptions, yet they inevitably happen like clockwork: a request here, a plea there, a demand everywhere, all adding up to a large sum of frivolous inconveniences. She pushes a few loose strands of hair back and reaches up behind her ear to take off her communicator, trying to silence the noise. Somebody’s bothering her again about management decisions, an irritatingly nasal voice streamed directly into her brain. She switches the device off with a decisive _click_ , tucking it into her pocket. Enough of that. “I believe she wanted a dialogue between us.”

“What kind of dialogue?” Johanna folds her hands in her lap, settling in and getting comfy from her vantage point on the floor. The harvester guy is doing his thing with the scythe, the Peacekeeper dummies are getting ripped to shreds again, and the sniper lady is skulking in the corner. Her attention turns back to Coin, and suggestions start to occur to her. “Do I get to be insulting, or are they gonna keep a lid on that? Sucks if they are; it’s gonna happen anyway. And will they let you start talking about Roman politics? Probably shouldn’t, if they don’t want you to lecture for a solid hour.”

She bites back a laugh, not hesitating to needle the president about their differing views on the importance of dull parts of history. Johanna’s been a target of those impromptu lectures often enough to understand the depths of Coin’s knowledge, and she has equal parts respect and amusement for her compulsive study of antiquity.

Probably better not to keep talking about it. At the very mention of it, Coin’s getting that look again. “Any specifics here? Or are we just gonna get fed lines for the camera?”

“It probably won’t be any of that. Cressida was adamant. She wants it to be candid.” Coin rests her chin in her hands, glancing at Johanna as she recalls the morning’s encounter with Cressida. The young filmmaker was rather unclear in her instructions. Specifically, she mentioned the plan for the very first time that same morning, ducking into Coin’s office to say a few words before rushing away to fix a disaster in a different department. “I didn’t speak to her for long. She just wants an honest narrative of your thoughts on the Capitol situation. Perhaps a few complimentary words for the District, among other things.”

“Okay, great, so I gotta compliment you guys. Shouldn’t be hard.” She catches Coin’s eye for a fleeting second, exchanging smiles. “So, what are _you_ supposed to do, then? If she didn’t say, then I guess we can talk about District stuff. Can’t imagine we’ll run out of subject matter there.”

“I have no way of knowing. Again, it’s all dependent upon Cressida’s plans. I trust her judgment.”

“Got it.” Johanna eyes her again, sizing her up. “Well, if all else fails, you’ll be some serious eye candy.”

 _“Me?_ ” Coin looks mildly astonished at the absurdity of the suggestion. “While I’m not going to disagree, I don’t think I’ll objectively appeal to Capitol tastes.”

“Who cares about the Capitol’s tastes? Their job is to shut up and listen. And if they don’t like _you_ , well, you’re gonna have to pass a new law when you get there. Free eye exams.”

A small smile slips across Coin’s face. What a suggestion. “I think we’ll have more important legislation to enact first.” Which brings her to a worry that’s been nagging at her lately. Perhaps it’s best to just mention it now. “Another thing. If I fall prey to the cult of personality when I’m in office, in _any_ way -- please feel free to intervene. Don’t let me be that way. It violates the spirit of District 13.”

“Nah, it’s not gonna go to your head. Not if I have anything to do with it.” Johanna’s got a faint smile on her face, and focuses on getting more comfortable on the mat, extending her arms to crack her knuckles and massaging the soreness out of her forearms. But behind her slightly violent form of good cheer, there’s a more serious concern. She’s seen how the presidency corrupted one man already, the guy who claims to want the best for his country at the cost of treating his citizens right. To see Coin fall into that kind of mindset and fail to fix Panem would be worse than… well, Johanna’s not gonna let her thoughts go there.

But she has faith in this particular president. She sits up and gently prods Coin’s shoulder, resisting the urge to play with the strands of her smooth silver hair. Time for a new subject. “Hey, you. There’s more things to do in training than just weapons practice. You ever wrestled anybody?”

“Military training is mandatory for all District 13 leaders. Weapons for combat, and martial arts, for self-defense.” Coin purses her lips, turning towards the girl who’s sitting cross-legged at her side. Wrestling isn’t her idea of a good time, but it’s obviously Johanna’s. “Why do you ask?”

“Want to practice? Could be good for both of us.” Johanna uncrosses her legs and leans forward, stretching with languid motions. After a couple months of training, her axe skills are incomparably good, so she’s looking for new areas of skill to master. Not that she expects Coin to say yes, but still, the offer’s been made.

Much to her astonishment, Coin accepts after only a moment of deliberation. “Certainly. Although I’ll warn you, I don’t especially care for physical fighting.” And in the spirit of this warning, she leans in and delivers the first blow in the way of a sharp elbow shoved in Johanna’s side before she can make a move. That kind of sudden impact to the gut _definitely_ isn’t recommended in the style of hand-to-hand combat they’ve been trained in, but Coin’s combat strategy seems to be mostly hit-and-run. As Johanna gasps and clutches her side, Coin apologizes with a light laugh, quickly rising to her feet and moving out of range. “Honest tactics never won a war.”

Before she can get far, though, Coin’s dragged back down and forcefully pinned to the mat, grimacing in frustration and uselessly trying to shove Johanna off of her. By now, though, Johanna -- who possesses the strength, if not the looks, of a standard District 7 lumberjack -- is straddling Coin and leveraging her weight on top of the smaller woman to keep her exactly where she wants her. It’s not a difficult task, considering Coin’s small stature, and Johanna looks down at her and grins. Even if it’s only a mock fight, there’s something strangely, viciously appealing about this. “You don’t wanna play fair, huh?”

“I never do.” Coin meets her eyes, transfixing her for just a second in the piercing gray gaze. After she’s taken stock of her situation, she tries another escape move that Boggs taught her, shoving upward with a palm pressed against Johanna’s shoulder and wriggling a little to try to get out from underneath. It doesn’t quite work, but Johanna’s still forced to relent her grip to keep her balance, letting Coin get the upper hand just long enough for one booted foot to connect with Johanna’s thigh in a sudden kick. Johanna falters, grasp loosening further, and Coin manages to shove upward with a fist pressed against Johanna’s collarbone, the force of the motion defying Johanna’s expectations. She’s nearly managed to escape when Johanna abruptly pushes her back down, biting her lip as she focuses hard. Seconds later, the president’s grip goes weak, relenting quickly and completely under the force of Johanna’s hands digging into her slim shoulders.

Coin lets out a heavy sigh and her concentration breaks. She brushes her hair out of her face as she stops to catch her breath in quick inhales and exhales, working to find her composure again. “I told you, I’m terribly out of practice.”

“You weren’t doing too bad, though.” Johanna remains firmly situated in place, but relaxes, no longer focused on winning the fight. If anything, she feels mildly guilty for reasons she can’t quite place. There’s no way Coin can get out from under her now, though, pinned on her back, long hair falling loosely around her face as she tries to sit up. Then she lets herself lie back against the mat and gaze up at the high ceiling, not even objecting to Johanna’s restraint.

Johanna prods her shoulder, speaking up to catch the president’s attention. “Hey. We should try again sometime.”

“Maybe.” Coin rubs her temples a little, tucking her hair behind her ear neatly with a careful, graceful ease. She shrugs her shoulders, stretches a little, gets comfortable on the mat -- and then in a flash, she lashes out and grabs Johanna by the collar of her shirt and drags her forward, changing her opponent’s center of gravity. Johanna yelps and tries to steady herself, but it’s too late. After the sudden attack, it’s easier for Coin to struggle out from underneath her, unexpectedly agile and swift. Before Johanna can grab her and drag her back to sit on her again, Coin pushes Johanna aside and scrambles back to her feet, stepping off the exercise mat. She’s wearing a look of entirely proud self-satisfaction. Trying this trick on poor Plutarch in training is one thing; succeeding with it against a trained former Tribute is another. _Especially_ Johanna, who has additional reasons to want to keep Coin in her grasp.

After a moment of stunned silence, Johanna gets onto her hands and knees and hauls herself up too, immediately catching onto the game Coin is playing. It’s not so different from Johanna’s own stratagems, or District 13’s at large. Feign weakness, then wreck your opponents. She laughs, with just a touch of disappointment at her own failure to realize the president’s tactic. She’s willing to give Coin this victory, and eyes her with a measure of new respect. “Good one.”

Nonetheless, when she’s within range of the president again a few seconds later, Johanna claims her own sort of victory. She takes hold of Coin and slides a muscular arm around her waist, catching her in a viselike but affectionate grasp. Her other arm rests across Coin’s chest, grabbing onto her shoulder to prevent any more escapes. When Johanna speaks, it comes out as a low breath into Coin’s ear, a simmering laugh at the base of her throat. “Gotcha.”

Coin’s unfazed, and fits neatly into Johanna’s arms. “Is this how you restrain all your opponents?”

“Just the ones I like.” Johanna considers going further, but she can feel Coin stiffening in her arms a little, discomfort finally settling in at the closeness. So, reluctantly, she lets go, and Coin steps away gracefully, looking none the worse for wear. Even the flimsy stitching of the nuclear logo on her sleeve is unharmed. Johanna bites her lip, noticing exactly how well today’s uniform fits her, snug around the waist and hips. There’s more power in her slim body than Johanna had originally estimated. “Looks like I need to get better, too.”

“Something tells me you were intentionally holding back.” Despite the tricks she’s learned, Coin still isn’t an expert at this type of combat, but she knows Johanna should have defeated her a lot more soundly, all things considered. Somehow she feels a proper wrestling contest wasn’t the goal of this exercise. “You don’t need to. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but if anything happens to you, I don’t want to be dragged out of my quarters in the dead of night for discipline.” Johanna folds her arms, tilting her head to give Coin her best approximation of a stern look. She can’t even get close to the kind of looks Coin herself can leverage at troublemakers, but it’s still effective, more or less.

“That won’t happen. You have my word.” Coin takes stock of the situation, and decides the fight isn’t worth dwelling on. As usual, at her orders, the discipline in District 13 has been relaxed substantially for Johanna. This week, she’s been allowed outside without the tracking wristbands that are mandatory for the other ex-tributes. She already has free range over many non-classified base areas, and over the past weeks and months, she’s been granted other such minor privileges that add up to a remarkably tolerable experience in underground living. “Speaking of your quarters, how are you liking your new arrangement?”

“Well, I can think of at least one way that it could be better.” Johanna fully realizes it’s her own fault -- she’s opted to share quarters with Katniss, with whom she is tentatively friends. Unfortunately, Katniss has a habit of sneaking out to go hide elsewhere in the base, which leads to a lot of unpleasantly interrupted naps for Johanna whenever her roommate decides to come and go at odd hours. She clarifies her meaning a little further, mouth twisting into a smirk. “But I’m guessing soldiers and District officials don’t usually share rooms.”

Coin is deliberately obtuse when she answers, hair falling on either side of her face to neatly frame her cheekbones and highlight every shift in her expression. “It could be arranged, but may I ask why? Perhaps you’ve befriended somebody in our board of tribunes?” District 13’s answer to the Capitol’s puppet Senate, the tribunes are named for a board of Roman plebeians. Most oversee major government functions: one for agriculture, one for wastewater treatment, and so on, one person per every thrilling necessity of district life. Coin, of course, pioneered the system, and obviously takes pride in it. “I’m sure accommodations can be made, if that’s the case.”

“You _know_ that’s not it.” Johanna kneels and grabs her axe, strapping it to her waist again lest she forget and leave it on the mat when she departs. Apparently, she’s not permitted to take this particular axe outside the facility -- a rule that’ll be strictly enforced, no doubt -- but it’s reassuring to have its weight at her side, counterbalancing her strides as she paces back and forth across the hard floor. “Hey, I’m just trying to make sure I’m not bypassing any opportunities here.”

For once, Coin cooperates ever so slightly. Though she doesn’t want to openly encourage Johanna’s constant quest to find the well-concealed presidential suite, she has to admit, the prospect of the feisty ex-tribute joining her in her quarters isn’t half bad. “You _are_ missing out, yes, but you still haven’t earned the privileges you want.”

Johanna huffs under her breath, striding back towards the weapons stash to drop off her axe. Petty frustration plagues her thoughts, persuading herself that this is unfair -- Coin keeping herself isolated at a safe distance while still accepting and enjoying all the affection that Johanna gives her. A poor bargain, if it’s true. “You say that every time.”

Coin keeps pace with her, listening patiently. Trust does not come easily for her, but Johanna really is trying her hardest to earn it. She reaches out, taking hold of Johanna’s hands in the usual way she does, clasping them like a gesture of symbolic partnership. She does it to everyone, but with Johanna, it’s just a little different. “Johanna, I’ll make this clear. I can’t disclose my location.” And here her eyes meet Johanna’s, unflinching. “However, come find my quarters on your own, and you may spend the night. I promise.”

“Now _that’s_ more like it.” And Johanna grins wickedly, an idea occurring to her in a moment’s flash of brilliant insight. She has a feeling about _exactly_ how she’s going to find the place. “You better be up late tonight, Madame Prez. I’m gonna be at your door at midnight.”

“I wish you luck.” Coin’s eyebrows arch in slight doubt, but her shapely mouth curves into a gentle smile. “I’ll be waiting.” But then she lets go of Johanna’s hands, her straightforward demeanor overriding the hint of soft romantic sentiment. “Not for long, though. I have paperwork to do tonight.”

Johanna scoffs under her breath as Coin turns to depart, stifling a laugh. “Great, all we need for a hot date. You, me, and some file folders.”

Coin glances over her shoulder to retort. “It’s better than nothing.”

Johanna really can’t argue with that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna and Effie aren’t ever inclined to see eye to eye, but for once, Johanna’s forced to swallow her pride and request Effie’s help. It goes slightly better than expected; there’s nothing like wartime to spark unlikely cooperation. 
> 
> \- - -
> 
> “Did you really think I’d lie about a thing like that?” Effie deftly plucks the scarf out of Johanna’s hand, spreading out the section of patterned cloth and laying it flat on a small table in the corner of the room. Upon closer viewing, Johanna realizes she’s labeled each portion of the map, each nodule and corridor and wing, with the name of the department it contains. Effie points out one area at a time, tapping with one neatly trimmed nail. “The middle section is water filtration. Top left, special weapons and launch facility. The air supply’s down here somewhere.” She indicates an area near the bottom of the map. Then, at the lower right corner: “The hangar’s in this area. So are Boggs’s quarters.”
> 
> “How the hell do you know all this?”
> 
> “I do leave my room sometimes.”

Dragging herself, step by step, up to the floor of the base that contains Effie’s lodgings, Johanna grumbles under her breath, hands balled into tightly clenched fists. It’s a blow to her dignity to have to acknowledge this, to admit that the frivolous yet sophisticated, obviously Capitol-esque Effie might actually have a real advantage over her uncouth, foul-mouthed opponent from the lumberjack district.

But Effie has the scarf, and Johanna doesn’t.

There’s no formality to her knocking, just a pounding thud at the sliding door of the modest gray-toned quarters that brings Effie rushing to the door in a huff, hair bound up in the patterned bandana. Johanna’s attention focuses first on the coveted accessory wrapped around Effie’s head, a square of gray cloth bearing a diagram of District 13’s layout, and then on Effie -- still eyebrowless, due to a bleaching incident, and clad in some kind of orange tulle concoction. Upon closer inspection, Effie’s still wearing D13 casuals; the tulle is just wrapped around her in the loose form of a garment, held in place with hundreds of pins. She’s none too pleased about her visitor, and it shows in the pout on her face, delicate features accentuated with blush and lipstick. The effect is pleasing, if a bit artificial.

Johanna’s own (thankfully intact) eyebrows lift a little, judging her before Effie can even fire off a first comment. “What’s up with _you?”_

Effie sniffs the air delicately. Rather than answer, she reaches into a tiny handbag at her side, pulls out an even tinier vial of perfume, and spritzes Johanna with it, making her twitch with irritation and rub her eyes and curse. “And why the _fuck_ are you spraying me with that?”

“To clear up the, ah, athletic smell. Before you come in.” Effie waves a lace-gloved hand gently to dissipate the scent. “I’m purifying my environment. Bringing you in won’t help, but I suppose it’s unavoidable.”

“Damn right it is.” Johanna steps through the doorway before Effie can try to body-block her. The most basic rules of politeness dictate that she ought to at least _pretend_ to be nice before asking for the scarf. There’s a sewing kit spread out conspicuously on a small table, which she notes with some curiosity, seeing a possible topic for conversation. “Hey. What are you making?”

“A gown, of course.” Effie sets aside her animosity for about half a minute, just for the sake of showing off her prized creations. She does a pirouette, showing off the folds of fabric, which she’s sculpted and molded to mimic the petals of an upside-down rose. “I’m taking a former Capitol style and making it my own. Snow’s known for his roses, you see, so when I show up at the Capitol wearing a rose-styled dress in the colors of the Mockingjay…” She trails off, giving a surprisingly self-aware little smile and a shrug. “It’s for _me_ , most of all. I may or may not be the talk of the town when it happen. We’ll see.”

“Great.” Johanna couldn’t care less, but she does pretend to feign at least a little interest in the elusive and puzzling world of fashion, just for the sake of compromise. Her gaze scans the interior of Effie’s chamber. Every square inch is filled with bags and boxes of plundered Capitol and D1 loot, brought along by well-meaning refugees. Some garments have been reworked and simplified by some skilled hand-stitching, and now hang in a clustered mass of hooks on the wall. Others are strewn across the empty bed, intact in their original hideous Capitol styles. “You been busy?”

“Yes, I have. I’m re-stitching everything I’ve been given. It’s either that, or let myself be bored to death in here.” Effie’s mood is already softening. Heels clicking on the floor, she strides towards the rack of garments, demonstrating one after the next with clear pride. “Here’s something for Katniss, it matches her Mockingjay suit... This seemed well-suited to Haymitch, at least after I took off the pink leopard-fur cuffs... I’m not sure about this one.” The garment in question is a small blazer in gray, with an elaborate but unappealing beading pattern sewn into the collar. About half of it has been removed with a seam-ripper, which improves the look drastically, but it’s clearly a work in progress. Effie squints at it, then catches Johanna’s eye. “Maybe it would fit that president of yours. What is she, a size negative-two?”

“Maybe. Hell if I know.” Johanna casually lets the comment slide. This brings no end of raised eyebrows and pointed looks from Effie, who’s clearly waiting for more of an explanation, but Johanna doesn’t provide even the slightest word of it. “What? Gray _is_ her color.”

Effie’s lips are pursed in a knowing smile.

Johanna’s expression turns suspicious and hostile, as she’s prone to do. “You knock it off.”

“Oh, _please.”_ Effie waves a hand airily, turning away and bending down to gather up a stray end of the tulle draped around her waist. With a flourish, she pins it back where it belongs. “You couldn’t have been more obvious this morning.”

“Okay, that’s fair. I’m not exactly hiding it.” Johanna flops down onto the lower bunk of Effie’s bed, propping herself up with a number of ornate pillows. _Pillows?_ Why would anyone bring _pillows_ to District 13? Effie’s probably going to sew a hat or something out of them. Johanna’s attention returns to the irritatingly correct seamstress herself. “Neither are you and Haymitch, but hey, I’m not judging.”

“Haymitch and I have known each other for _quite_ a while. We have a natural rapport.” Effie’s tone turns needle-sharp again, just the slightest hint of offended resentment at Johanna’s mild jab. “Granted, I spent most of the time despising his manners, but he’s been surprisingly pleasant company here in 13. I have more in common with him than any of the residents.”

“Yeah, he’s a lot better when he’s not drunk out of his mind.” Johanna sits up, slouching forward. It’s weird to be surrounded by repurposed luxury like this -- no matter if Effie _is_ making it all into something useful, it’s still a tangible reminder of the world outside. She looks up, meeting Effie’s eyes. “Okay, I’ll level with you. I gotta ask you a favor.”

“Go ahead.” Effie moves closer, the slight arch of her eyebrows suggested by a crease in her forehead. With their bleached color, her brows really are almost invisible. It’s a weird effect, but Johanna doesn’t let herself get distracted by it.

“I need to borrow your scarf.”

Effie’s mouth drops open. She taps the scarf tied around her scalp with one fingertip, shaking her head abruptly. _“This_ scarf? Not on my life! I _need_ it.” She backtracks a moment later, trying to cancel out her own overreaction. “Why, I’d be lost in this place without it.”

Johanna has no time for this. She stands up, meeting Effie’s gaze straight-on and unflinching. “Lady, if you were actually using it as a map, it wouldn’t be tied around your head. I need it too, and guess what? _I_ need the map part of it.”

“But I _am_ using it a map.” Effie’s pride is dented, leaving her with no choice but to redeem herself in some minor capacity. She reaches up to unwind the scarf reluctantly, untying the knot, but then stops, keeping her hands firmly placed on her head. Clearly, she’s uncomfortable. Her tone gets sharp again, Capitol accent seeping through more strongly than ever. “Can’t you find another?”

“Nope. They ran out of ‘em months ago, and I’m not about to search all the people living in here.” Johanna holds out a hand, waiting, beckoning. She doesn’t understand Effie’s hesitation. She _will_ give the scarf back, after all. Word of honor. Well, as much honor as Johanna even has, but it’s the thought that counts, right? “Gimme.”

And, hating every moment of it, Effie slowly surrenders the scarf.

Beneath it, her hair is light mouse-brown, short and thin in what looks like an untidy buzz-cut style. It’s a far cry from her elaborately styled, perfectly dyed, intricately coiffed wigs that marked the signature Effie Trinket look for years and years. In fact, it’s rather disappointingly simple and sparse, not even dyed to match her outlandish bleached eyebrows.

“Just _take_ it.” Effie tosses the wrinkled scarf at Johanna and abruptly turns away, concealing the look on her face as she rapidly hunts through the pile for another piece of headwear. About a week ago, a pelt dealer from District 1 arrived with a pile of fur hats, and while most were redistributed to soldiers who needed the warmth, Effie was granted exactly one hat. Now she pulls it down over her head, adjusting to the new look. Her old attitude falls right back into place as she readopts the mantle of high fashion. _“Much_ better!”

Johanna’s hesitant to let go of the issue now that she’s ascertained the real reasons behind Effie’s headscarf habit. Scarf balled up in one hand, she shoves it into a pocket and taps Effie on the shoulder. “Hey. Listen to me. You don’t have to wear something on your head all the time. Your hair looks fine to me. Wash it more or something, let it grow out. It’ll get healthier.”

“It’s my own fault. I’ve been letting this happen for years. I kept my hair short and thin so it wouldn’t interfere with my wigs.” Effie tugs the hat down over her ears defiantly, lips pursed into a pout. In retrospect, and especially to a non-Capitol audience, she knows the decision makes no sense.  “Now it won’t grow out. The doctors here don’t know why.”

“Oh.” Johanna tilts her head to the side, making a face. That figures. The Capitol’s beauty standards did usually come at the cost of personal health. And Effie went to the _doctors_ here about her hair? Of course she did. “Take off the hat. You’ll feel better. Hell, just start a new trend. Real short hair. Dye it, make it match the gown. It’s like the opposite of the Capitol, right? Simple instead of fancy. You get the idea.”

“I don’t _do_ simple.” Effie does a half-curtsy on her way back to the stash of hangers, showing off the unfinished dress for the sake of proving her point. “It’s the opposite of everything that I am! You _have_ to understand. I thrive on complexity, on detail, on perfection. Minimalism has no appeal to me.”

Johanna nods in a way that seems understanding enough, but she’s still got Effie pinned down with a cool stare, waiting.

And finally Effie relents.

“Fine.” Plucking the hat off her head, Effie tosses it onto the pile and runs her hands through her thin hair, touching the light velvety texture of her scalp. It _does_ feel better to leave it this way, but she’d never admit that, especially not in front of semi-hostile company. “If the next words out of your mouth are ‘Told you so,’ I’m taking back the scarf.”

“Don’t worry. Not saying a word.” It occurs to Johanna that she _could_ mention that even Haymitch’s hair is fancier than Effie’s, but she really doesn’t want to irritate the girl completely. At least Effie’s not a complete slave to Capitol style anymore. Johanna pulls the scarf out of her pocket, turning it over in her hands, and notices little inscriptions in pen here and there, scrawled in a curlicue script that can only belong to its current owner. “Huh. Guess you _were_ using it as a map.”

“Did you really think I’d lie about a thing like that?” Effie deftly plucks the scarf out of Johanna’s hand, spreading out the section of patterned cloth and laying it flat on a small table in the corner of the room. Upon closer viewing, Johanna realizes she’s labeled each portion of the map, each nodule and corridor and wing, with the name of the department it contains. Effie points out one area at a time, tapping with one neatly trimmed nail. “The middle section is water filtration. Top left, special weapons and launch facility. The air supply’s down here somewhere.” She indicates an area near the bottom of the map. Then, at the lower right corner: “The hangar’s in this area. So are Boggs’s quarters.”

“How the hell do you _know_ all this?”

“I do leave my room sometimes.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Johanna absent-mindedly chews on her fingernail, biting it down to nothing. “What else you got?”

“These areas are mostly all residential. But a few floors down…” Effie dutifully ignores her guest’s atrocious manners and demonstrates the various areas on the map again, picking out specific locations amid the 40 floors of underground corridors. “Finnick, Haymitch, and I all live in this area down here. The Everdeen room is closer to the courtyard. If I’m correct, you and Katniss are by the elevator shaft.”

“True.” Johanna’s brow furrows a little. “Okay, I’m impressed.”

“See, I’m good for more than just sewing.” Effie smiles, a satisfied little look meant more to reaffirm her own self-confidence than send any specific message to Johanna. “A lot of the important people live near their departments, but not all of them. Plutarch’s quarters are by command. Beetee’s right next to the power supply. Pollux is near the cafeteria. I haven’t found Cressida yet...”

And Johanna waits patiently until Effie’s exhausted the whole list, from one to the next, listing all the dignitaries, higher-ups, and heroes of District 13.

Coin’s name is noticeably absent.

By now, Effie’s taken Johanna on a virtual tour of the district, eager to show off the many discoveries she’s made and distilled into a series of handwritten notes on a sheet of cloth. Johanna is impressed, really. She _is._ It must have taken months to do this.

But Effie does not have the answer she wants.

And the minute Effie turns to look back at Johanna and catches a glimpse of the look on her face, she _knows._ “I’m sorry, I don’t have the president’s address. She’s nowhere in the citizen index.”

“Goddamnit.”

Effie squints, fluttering long eyelashes. “Do you really think she’d let anyone find her?”

“She sure as hell thought _I_ could.”

“Well, did she give you any clues?” Effie’s feeling charitable today. She still compulsively runs her hands through her hair every few minutes, getting accustomed to the strange sensation of living without decorations constantly attached to her head, but her mood is better than ever. She parks herself on a chair near the wall, then instantly springs up again, forgetting about the pins stuck in her dress. “Ahh. Hm, I’d suggest doing a manual search, but this is a forty-story structure. We’d have better luck splitting the atom.”

“Funny you’d mention that, actually.” Johanna puts her chin in her hands. “Apparently District 13 took my stupid slogan about the nukes seriously.”

_“No!”_

_“Yes!_ They did a new logo with a radioactive symbol.” Johanna’s slumped back onto the lower bunk again. Why does Effie even _have_ a bunkbed? This must be one of the older rooms. She thinks back to their encounters earlier in the day, the little patch stitched to the shoulder of the president’s uniform. “Coin was wearing it today on her sleeve. Trying it out, or something.”

“Oh.” Effie ponders, and thinks, and gazes up at the ceiling introspectively, mixing her knowledge of these facts with memories from her base exploration adventures. It’s at least a minute before realization strikes, but when it does, it’s swift and merciless. She lets out a nervous giggle, tinged with horror. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Well…” Effie’s proceeding with caution. “There’s only one area in the base where I’ve never found any public living quarters.”

“Yeah?”

She’s almost hesitant to say, but spits it out anyway before Johanna can start demanding answers, steeling herself for the reaction.

“The nuclear defense systems.”

For a moment, there’s pure silence. Then, after she’s processed the idea, Johanna just starts cackling, head thrown back, hands on her forehead, reveling in it. The _nuclear defense systems._ “Fuck. You have got to be kidding me. Oh, that’s _perfect!”_

Effie waits for her to calm down, then pipes up, inquiring. “You know her better than me. Would she actually live there?”

“For some peace and quiet? Yeah.” Johanna throws up her hands, a gesture of defeat. Unbelievable. She sure knows how to pick ‘em. “In a fucking heartbeat. She _would.”_

“Then I suppose you know where to look.” Effie laughs bravely, but she’s still clearly concerned. Johanna’s reaction is nothing more than hysterical laughter at such an alarming fact, and that sets Effie off guard. It’s… well, what _is_ this, anyway? A testament to the weirdness of both parties, or a larger commentary on the strange life they’re leading? Effie doesn’t know, and doesn’t really _want_ to know. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll wear my best asbestos suit when I visit her tonight.” Johanna gives a laughing little scoff, finally sitting up again as she processes the implications of Effie’s discovery. “Makes sense, though. That’s one of the highest-security parts of the building. Nobody’s going to be wandering in there by accident. Probably real cozy, too. Everything’d be kept in top shape, obviously. It’s _exactly_ where she’d want to be.”

Effie clasps her hands together encouragingly. “Now you’re thinking like her.”

This gets another snort out of Johanna. “Trust me, I don’t wanna be. The day I actually understand what’s going through that woman’s head is the day I resign from the district.”

Effie surveys her with arched eyebrows.

“One of the reasons I like her so much is that I could never do what she does. She’s on a whole other level. You know I can’t keep secrets, and she’s kept an _entire goddamn district_ hidden.” Johanna spreads her hands, gesturing vaguely. “You know how it is.”

“I suppose I understand.” She nods, trying her best to look wise. “Haymitch is rather… straightforward, in ways I could never hope to be. Opposite personality traits can be appealing sometimes.” Effie’s relationship advice is limited, but usually rather astute. “Just as long as you don’t mind what a mystery our president can be. I hope she’s more honest with you than she is with the rest of us. And oh, what I’d give for a chance to style that hair...”

“We’re pretty good at being open with each other, yeah. Don’t worry about that.” Johanna’s reclaimed the scarf and tied it into a knot, and is now fidgeting with it, tossing the bundle of fabric from hand to hand. “Also, Effie? If you so much as _touch_ her hair, I’ll be at your door with my axe.” She softens the threat slightly. “If I didn’t like her the way she is, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” Effie is suddenly ill at ease. Johanna, her usual nemesis and the proud owner of a bad attitude, is sitting in the lower bunk of her bed, confiding things about a relationship, or possible relationship, that Effie knows she has no right to know. Johanna must really have no other friends. She clears her throat, an exaggerated gesture to catch her guest’s attention again, and asks to satisfy her own curiosity. “Ahem. Have you talked to Finnick about this?”

“A bit. He’s pretty much just there to make fun of me for it, but hey, fair’s fair. That’s what we do.” Johanna’s cool disposition falls back into place as soon as she rises up from her seat, axe-less but somehow still looking lethal. It’s probably the combination of tangled short hair and dark circles under her eyes, plus the exasperated expression that fits so naturally on her thin face, exaggerated by half the things Effie says. “Thanks for the map. I’ll give it back tomorrow morning. Good luck with your sewing and all that shit.”

“You’re very welcome, and thank you. I’ll need it. I’m running dreadfully low on thread.” Effie bids Johanna a hasty farewell, ushering her towards the door, but one final thought gives her pause. “Good luck to you, too. Just in case _you_ need it.”

Johanna looks surprised, a twitch of amusement at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks. Really. We’re gonna be fine. She’s a good person.”

“Of course.” Effie pats her on the shoulder, her own attempt at a sort of friendly goodbye gesture. She’s really going to have to get used to thinking of Coin as something other than District 13’s untouchable, slightly threatening, leader figure. She’s a real person. With a real date tonight. Effie shivers a little at the weirdness of that, but it’s not her place to judge, despite her strong instincts in that direction. Instead, she just wishes Johanna well in a sweet tone, following her better inclinations. “Good luck. Don’t get radiation poisoning!”

Johanna raises her hand in a casual goodbye, sauntering out the threshold. “The only way I’m getting radiation poisoning tonight is if _she’s_ radioactive.” A wicked grin crosses her face, directing her last remark at Effie, who’s still listening through the now-shut door. “In which case, just check me into the ER right now, ‘cause I’m gonna be off the charts.”

Effie silently wishes she hadn’t heard that last bit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna finally finds what she's been looking for, although it takes a narrow escape to get there, due to Coin's fondness for privacy. At least it leads to a relatively peaceful evening, which they both need.
> 
> \- - -
> 
> Johanna grins, resting her head on Alma’s slim shoulder. “C’mon, tell me about those barbarians.”
> 
> She does so readily. “Well, upon the Gauls’ victory, the Romans complained about how much gold they were losing. The Gauls were using extra weights on the scales to earn more than their share. One Roman pointed this out, and the chief Gaul just laughed, said ‘Woe to the conquered,’ and threw his sword onto the scales to claim more gold.” Alma grins, and it’s not at all the polite, sweet smile she specializes in. It’s that satisfied kind of look she gets when she pauses to let her audience applaud. “I always found it rather poetic, and I’d like to reference that in my next propo. I suppose it’s ill-advised to let the Capitol know what to expect, but I’d like to remind Snow that the historical record hasn’t been erased entirely.”

As always, Johanna realizes her regrets a minute too late.

It would have been a good idea on her part to get a little more clarification about the text on Effie’s scarf-map before she made her the way out the door, given that she’s now using the thing to actually find her way _through_ the base. Trying to navigate the staircases and scaffolds and corridors that litter her path is like blundering through a maze for rats. Instead of having a real field guide to District 13’s nooks and crannies, she’s left empty-handed as a result of her own courtesy, forced to decipher Effie’s magically illegible handwriting by recollection and hard squinting at the scribbles on the cloth.

At least her handwriting is clear about the nuclear defense system’s precise location.

The system itself occupies several stories, but only one of them is safe enough to possibly accommodate any lodgings, according to Effie. The ex-Capitol escort isn’t somebody Johanna would’ve considered a trustworthy and plausible source about nuclear science, but apparently, in her own concerns about getting poisoned, she questioned Beetee within an inch of his life, pestering him until he explained the safety of D13’s nukes. The resulting knowledge got transferred to the scarf in Effie’s loopy cursive, and though Johanna can only make out every other word in the messy paragraph, the message is legible enough to suffice.

Unfortunately, the elevator doesn’t stop at the specified floor (safety reasons, or so they say). So once Johanna’s out of the little glass cage, she follows her best instincts to get where she’s going, timing her progress with the communicuff’s watch function. Katniss has taught her a few tricks about District 13’s layout, which Johanna now recalls to the best of her ability, picking out the cues for hidden passageways and avoiding dead ends. In the span of half an hour, she’s scaled three ladders, clambered through two trapdoors, nearly fallen down a disposal chute, and crawled through a ventilation duct, coating her in a fine layer of dust that would’ve driven Effie into several sneezing fits.

Handkerchief in hand, Johanna steps off the final flight of stairs, surveying the territory with a triumphant grin and her hair sticking up in a staticky mess. “And people _pay_ to run obstacle courses.”

Nothing but fluorescent-bright, drably painted corridors await her in silence.

She sighs, gathers herself up and dusts off her shoulders, and shoves the map back into the pocket of her jacket. She’s changed three times today, from jumpsuit to athletic gear to her current outfit, which is very unlike Johanna’s usual habits. The jacket’s one of the nicer garments she owns -- a brown leather coat with rolled-up cuffs and brass buttons, a low-priced utility garment in District Eight but a treasure to her now that it’s here. Beneath it, she’s opted for a dark cotton shirt. Her pants are some kind of khaki trousers from D13’s standard clothing supplier, and the ensemble’s finished off with combat boots, gray and worn and sturdy. It’s a simple outfit, sure, but Johanna’s also making the best of what’s available, and she’s almost certain Coin’s going to prefer this kind of look much more than Johanna’s typical exercise wear.

She pushes her sleeves up a little further and strides onward, following the path of the corridor. There’s a sharp bend at the angled end of it, and the area is curiously guard-free -- it’s quiet enough that Johanna almost flinches at the clatter of her own footsteps on the concrete floor. She slows down, quieting the noise of her steps, and ventures down the bend of the hall, peering onward.

All she sees is more corridors. More flickering bright artificial lights, more of the pathways that seem to never end. She surveys the options; the path straight ahead just ends with a large set of double doors, and that _can’t_ be right. To the left of where Johanna’s standing, there’s the door to a janitorial supply room. Up ahead, to the right, there’s another door, unlabeled. Probably a storage closet.

“If Effie’s wrong, I’m gonna rip up that scarf.” Johanna grumbles to herself, hands forming fists, and stalks onward. She’ll likely do no such thing, but it’s therapeutic to entertain the thought. On either side of the hallway ahead, there’s other, smaller corridors. She picks the one to the right, arbitrarily, and takes the sharp bend in the path, glancing at the floor and counting her steps just in case she’s picked the wrong direction.

She certainly has. After rounding the bend in the corridor, she finds company. A guard, an earnest-looking type who’s armed with a book in one hand and a small weapon in the other, gets to his feet, rising from the flimsy collapsible chair he’s parked himself in. “I’m sorry, Soldier Mason, but you’re not allowed back here. This is a restricted area.” He actually looks apologetic, surprisingly enough, which lessens Johanna’s surge of rage at the reprimand. “Can I help you find your way back?”

“No thanks, I think I got this.” Johanna throws him a hasty salute, then retreats rapidly, preferring to hightail it out of there rather than divulge her real reasons for wandering into the base’s _nuclear defense system_. It sounds stupid just thinking about it; the wall across from the guard’s little base camp had a nuclear symbol tacked up on it, plus a warning in fine print that Johanna didn’t get close enough to read.

When she’s rounded the bend she slows down again to catch her breath, only to hear the sound of footsteps pelting down the hallway after her, somebody propelling themselves at top speed in pursuit. She hears a breathless voice call out, imploring her. “Hey, come back! Wait a minute!”

 _No way._ Johanna bolts in the opposite direction, boots pounding on the concrete, retracing her steps amid the hum of power generators and the buzz of panicked thoughts. Beyond her there’s just the open space of the broad hallway, an easy space to be caught. Her fight-or-flight instinct is, for once, instructing her to flee. The whole thing is bringing back unpleasant memories of a failed escape from Capitol custody.

So she scans the walls for options. There don’t seem to be any ceiling trapdoors, and she hasn’t the energy to pull herself up and crawl into the vents. She gives herself the choice between running and a certain capture, or opting to hide out in the storage closet, and though there’s not much of a chance the guards are stupid enough not to look behind doors, it will, at least, buy her valuable time.

Heart pounding in her chest, Johanna yanks on the handle, kicks open the door…

And trips and falls right onto a carpet, flat on the floor.

Coin’s mild voice greets her as the door swings shut, taking note of her guest. “Good job! You’re only half an hour late. Frankly, I’m very impressed.”

Johanna takes a minute to process this, and rolls over to lie on her back, just dumbly staring up at the ceiling and sprawled out on the floor. She didn’t even know carpet _existed_ anywhere in District 13, but she supposes if anybody had it, it would be the president. She catches her breath, finally, and responds. “Thanks, babe.” The walls are painted a pleasant grayish-blue color. There’s some pieces of art hanging up -- pretty good ones, too, as far as Johanna’s uncritical eye can tell. “Nice place you got here.”

Coin calmly turns a page, unfazed. “I’m so glad you approve.”

Johanna raises herself up onto one elbow, surveying the little apartment. It’s just a series of segmented rooms, but it’s nice in its simplicity. The room she’s landed in has a table and chairs and several bookcases. A little farther away, there’s a kitchen, and further yet, a bedroom, presumably with a bath attached. Not too different from Johanna’s own room, actually. “Are all the supply closets this nice, or is it a special setup in here?”

“Just this one. However, the blueprints for my quarters are very similar to the citizens’ living pods. I felt it would be arrogant to request otherwise.” Coin’s perched on the couch, surrounded by a pile of books, silver hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She’s dressed in a simple patterned floral nightgown and gray socks, and Johanna realizes this is the first time she’s seen her in anything other than one of her uniforms. She leans down to look at Johanna, genuine concern etched into her delicate features, and extends a hand. “I hope you didn’t struggle too much to find my quarters.”

“Nah, it was fine. I think I almost got arrested, but it’s no big deal.” Johanna takes the offered hand, sitting up, and scans the titles of the books with a snort -- _Twelve Caesars,_ _Peloponnesian War_ , _Early History of Rome_. Those are just the ones Johanna recognizes, and there’s a lot of stuff she doesn’t. Her gaze flicks between Coin and the books, critical but appreciative of both. “Were you actually reading all those?”

“Yes. I’m compiling a new address to the citizens.” Coin levels a firm gaze at Johanna, the kind of gaze that keeps her transfixed with a strangely good feeling at the pit of her stomach. “Snow keeps relying on fables from Livy, so I need to retaliate. Do you remember when he made that propo referencing how the Districts function as body parts, but the Capitol functions as the heart?”

Johanna makes a face at the image. “Sort of.”

“Well, that was from this book.” Unexpectedly, Coin tosses the copy of Livy towards Johanna, who catches it with lightning reflexes. “Now he’s trying to compare us to the barbarians who besieged Rome. Not, I suppose, that he’s wrong.” The president sweeps the books aside with one smooth motion of her arm to make room for Johanna in the seat beside her. She’s thought about this parallel quite a bit, and finds it almost flattering. “I do plan to be equally merciless upon our victory. Not barbaric, but simply--” She gestures lightly, thinking of the word. “Claiming what is owed.”

“Oh yeah?” Johanna takes the invitation, parking herself in the empty space on the couch and laying the book aside. She pulls off her boots and sits cross-legged, her knee pressing gently against Coin’s thigh. “Don’t think I’ve heard this one. Why don’t you tell me, Madam President?”

“Oh, don’t say that, you sound like Plutarch now. Call me Alma.”

Johanna laughs under her breath, looking her in the eye.  “Okay, Alma, I’ll bite. What’s the story?”

Alma’s mouth twists into a little grin and she sits back, making herself comfortable as she explains. “The Gauls were a tribe of warriors who sacked Rome and plundered its wealth. Snow’s comparing the Gauls in a negative light, painting the Capitol as…” She gives a dismissive little shrug. “As a virtuous city that’s being besieged by scruffy barbarians. Honestly, it’s not going to resonate well with his audiences. The logic behind that man’s speeches is lacking. It’s all very calculated and artificial, but it’s alienating all the Districts, especially the impoverished ones.” She coughs gently, covering her mouth with a small hand. “Instead of refuting the barbarian metaphor, I intend to take it to its conclusion. I think Snow is forgetting that Rome lost the fight. Or else, he’s expecting that everyone else has forgotten.”

“Hell, he’s right to expect that. I don’t know this shit. Actually, does anyone _but_ you?”

“‘Children in District Thirteen are to be brought up with a classical education as well as a practical one, starting at age fourteen.’” She dryly cites some of her own district’s statutes, making little finger motions to indicate the quotation. “The policy was implemented before my time, but I follow it to the letter. One of the District’s intentions, and my own personal goal, is to preserve at least a fraction of our history. That’s why we have a printing press.”

“Really? I thought the printing press was for those tabloids I’ve seen floating around.”

Alma looks vaguely alarmed. “Excuse me?”

“Just kidding. There’s just some kind of Capitol gossip sheet floating around now. Somebody brought copies from home for some light reading.”

Her brow furrows ever so slightly. “I’m astonished Snow hasn’t outlawed those kinds of publications.”

“I think he did. It’s a black market kind of thing. Don’t worry about it, I heard Plutarch’s on the case.” Johanna leans back, getting comfy on the couch, and slips an arm around Alma’s waist, pulling her close before she can object. This kind of contact is quite a bit different from when they’re both in uniform. Alma’s far more accessible without her usual gray military suit, and now the soft fabric of the nightgown is all that’s separating her and Johanna’s touch.

Johanna grins, resting her head on Alma’s slim shoulder. “C’mon, tell me about those barbarians.”

She does so readily. “Well, upon the Gauls’ victory, the Romans complained about how much gold they were losing. The Gauls were using extra weights on the scales to earn more than their share. One Roman pointed this out, and the chief Gaul just laughed, said ‘Woe to the conquered,’ and threw his sword onto the scales to claim more gold.” Alma grins, and it’s not at all the polite, sweet smile she specializes in. It’s that satisfied kind of look she gets when she pauses to let her audience applaud. “I always found it rather poetic, and I’d like to reference that in my next propo. I suppose it’s ill-advised to let the Capitol know what to expect, but I’d like to remind Snow that the historical record hasn’t been erased entirely.”

“Yeah. Might send a nice message.” Johanna doesn’t particularly care for all the talk of strategy and scheming and one-upsmanship in propos. She’s a woman of action, not the kind of indirect taunting that takes place in war advertising. Nonetheless, it’s pleasant to listen to Alma and hear that lilt of pride in her voice as she discusses her favorite subjects. When she gets that gleam in her eyes, there’s no stopping her. “How’d they get rid of all the info the first time? I wasn’t exactly around to see it.”

“Neither was I.” Alma eyes her with a meaningful stare. “But I’ve been told. Public book burnings. That’s been a common tactic of dictators throughout the years. They can easily convince the people to reject their own knowledge.” She’s actually nestling up to Johanna, relaxing and enjoying the situation. Her hand reaches out to take hold of the other’s, cold fingers fitting into the spaces between Johanna’s warm ones. “They also eradicated the digital copies, but we had records of our own in our internal network, so everything we had in the District 13 archives is still intact.”

“Good. That’s real good. Hey, you should publish copies of all this stuff when we get control in the Capitol.” Johanna stretches lazily, spreading out on the couch and resting her head in Alma’s lap now. “Make sure everybody reads it.”

“Yes, that’s on my agenda. Someone once said the quickest way to avoid repeating past failures is to study them. I don’t recall who said that. It might have been me.” Alma ponders for a minute, then shrugs, lightly running her fingers through Johanna’s messy dark hair. It’s hard to keep track of such things. “But enough of this, my dear. How did you find my quarters?”

“I just got lucky as fuck. Made my way here, ran from a guard who was chasing me, thought I’d hide out in a closet, found you instead.” Johanna reaches up to play with a loose strand of Alma’s hair, admiring the different tones of silvery gray and appreciating her elegant profile. As striking as she is when giving her addresses from the Collective’s balcony, she’s even more appealing up close. This is exactly what Johanna has been waiting for. “Effie helped me figure out where in the base you actually _were._ That map scarf’s pretty handy.”

“Oh? You and Effie were cooperating?” Alma’s eyebrows arch lightly. This is good news. Unexpected, but good. “I was under the impression you despised each other.”

“Yeah, we put that shit aside for a day.” Johanna gives a wry little smirk, gazing up at Alma with thinly concealed delight. “Don’t know how, don’t really care, ‘cause I’m here for now.”

“For now? I would hope you aren’t planning on leaving anytime soon.” This is the closest Alma has come to acknowledging the purpose of Johanna’s visit. She accompanies the comment with another gentle touch, cool fingertips running from Johanna’s forehead down her cheek and the side of her neck, and Johanna shudders happily. “If you have any complaints about District 13 life, tell me later. I’m enjoying this.”

“That makes two of us.” Johanna’s eyes are bright, the smirk shifting into a wicked sly grin. She looks absolutely infatuated, in her own unique way. “Pretty sure my only complaint is that I don’t get more of this.”

Alma’s tone is gentle but probing. “More of what, exactly?”

“Privileges.” Johanna just leaves it at that. She lifts herself out of Alma’s lap, swinging her legs over the side of the couch so she’s standing up, and waits in front of her, offering a hand. Her voice is mostly gentle, but there’s a bit of an edge to it, almost taunting to capture her interest. “They say the beds in here are more comfortable when you’re sharing ‘em with someone. I wanna test that theory.”

“Oh, do you, now?” Alma rises to her feet, letting the pile of books stay where it is -- a heap of historical volumes strewn out across the sofa, no longer relevant to her current situation. Without her boots, she’s noticeably shorter, an effect that’s peculiarly charming, and Johanna wraps her arms around her waist and pulls her close so their bodies are flush together. She looks straight into Johanna’s eyes with that piercing gray gaze, searching for her intentions. The question isn’t coy, but direct and searching. “What for?”

“Honestly, I figured we’d just sit in bed and talk.” Johanna’s expectations aren’t what Alma anticipates, but they’re obviously well-received. She smiles a little in earnest, encouraging Johanna to continue. “What, you think I’m gonna waste my first night alone with you just putting the moves on you? People would kill for just an hour to talk to you, and I got a whole night.” She gives her a little peck on the lips, an alluringly brief kiss that leaves Alma herself faintly wanting more. “So c’mon. Let’s--” And it only takes a couple steps towards the other room before Johanna notices the pile of paperwork stacked on the small bed, an amount of material to rival the contents of her bookshelves. “Oh, goddamnit. Do you bring your work _everywhere?”_

“Yes. I can’t escape it. It’s inevitable for someone in my position.” Alma scoops up an armful of the papers, setting them aside neatly on the nightstand, while Johanna just dumps a stack of file folders unceremoniously on the floor. Alma isn’t thrilled with this method of cleanup, but it’s hardly the worst she’s encountered. She sighs gently and taps Johanna on the shoulder, interrupting her attempt to straighten up the untidy heap. “Don’t mind it. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. None of it is currently important.”

“What? How much of this stuff have you built up?” Johanna has a slightly horror-stricken thought, imagining years of accumulated paperwork, and then remembers this is Alma Coin she’s talking about. “More or less than a month?”

“Three weeks.” Alma sets the last stack of papers aside, laying a clipboard on top of them and writing a quick note to herself in red ink. Most of her notes are inscribed in red; it catches the eye more easily in a world full of gray. “Utility reports, agriculture documentation, census logs. It’s nothing that would interest anyone but the workers in those departments. And, of course, me, since I’m obligated to oversee--” with a soft sigh-- “ _everything.”_

“You need a secretary. Not me, but someone. Maybe one of those new recruits could do it.” Johanna’s already stripping out of the outfit, wrenching off the jacket and pants and tossing them aside on the floor. The shirt comes next, soaring through the air to join the pile of rumpled clothing. Alma does have a hamper, a neat little contraption in the corner of the room but Johanna’s not about to burden somebody else with her own laundry. Plus, she doesn’t have a change of clothes here, and she’s pretty sure she and the president aren’t quite the same size, making clothes-sharing impractical. This leaves Johanna in her underwear and a tank top, long legs and strong arms bare, and she readily plops down onto the bed, sprawled out with little regard for the perfectly arranged sheets. She meets Alma’s eyes, inviting her to join, and pats the space on the mattress beside her. “Your bed _is_ better than mine. I knew it.”

“It’s not better by much.” Alma reluctantly perches at the edge of the bed, feeling a slight hesitation to shed the remaining layers of emotional and physical distance and let herself curl up next to Johanna. Sharing her bed with another person, let alone a lover, will be a difficult adjustment. Certainly, she’s spent many nights camped out on the floor in the bunker next to the teeming mass of District 13 citizens, but this is a new, fresh level of intimacy to which she’s closed herself off years ago. “Give me a moment.”

“Hey, take as long as you need.” Johanna extends an arm, taking hold of Alma’s wrist, and gives a gentle little tug. “At least get comfortable. We don’t gotta even turn the lights off, we can just sit and talk for a while. Katniss does that a lot. Don’t know how she sleeps with the lights on, but she does.”

“Sometimes it’s the better alternative.” Alma surrenders to the touch, brushing her hair out of her face and turning gracefully towards Johanna, who greets her with open arms and a wide grin. Before Johanna can even say anything, Alma concedes, silencing her interruption. “But I will turn the lights off, if you’d like.”

“Nah. I’d rather sit here and look at you.” Johanna’s gaze rakes over her -- the way the thin fabric of the nightgown clings to her bony shoulders, the delicate musculature of her hands, the small but pronounced curves of her frame. Alma tolerates this for a moment, then clears her throat to interrupt the silent reverie. “I hope no one’s wondering where you’ve gone.”

“Me? Nobody’s looking for _me_ at this time of night, except that guard down the hall.” Johanna scoots across the mattress, pulling herself up to move nearer to Alma, who’s relaxed back against the pillows now. From this afternoon, she knows the president isn’t too keen on being manhandled, but nevertheless she does her best to slip an arm around her waist and bring her closer. The attempt fails, predictably, so Johanna takes a deep breath, sits up, and adjusts so she’s settled into Alma’s lap, straddling her waist like before and sitting back. This time, Alma clearly has an advantage. One hand clamps down on Johanna’s shoulder, surprisingly strong, but on her face is a look of astute, skeptical amusement. “Excuse me. Were you wanting something?”

“Me? C’mon, what would I possibly want?” Without the thick layers of fabric in the jumpsuit, being in such close contact with Alma is a completely different experience. Johanna runs a hand through her own short-cropped hair, fluffing it up and trying to dispel her own nervousness. Then her touch moves to Alma’s shoulder, trailing down her side. Alma has slender arms but an unflinching grasp, prominent collarbones and ribs, and enticingly strong hips, which Johanna can feel as she shifts underneath her. “Gotta admit, there’s a lot here I’d like, but only if _you_ want.”

“Let’s be gradual about this.” But Alma does concede and grant her a kiss, asserting her dignity while claiming Johanna for her own, arms draped gently around her shoulders. Her soft lips press gently against Johanna’s thin mouth, leaving no room for argument. Johanna closes her eyes and kisses back, and for a long moment, it feels like heaven.

Then Alma gently dislodges Johanna from her lap, and the two finally settle down onto the mattress together, lying amid scattered pillows and rumpled bedsheets. Alma’s hair is tangled now, with a bit of natural curl at the ends, and Johanna runs her fingers through it playfully, grabbing a fistful of her nightgown with the other hand and using it to pull her in for a deep, longing kiss. “Gradual’s fine with me. I’m the luckiest woman in this base, I wanna savor it.”

“I suppose you are.” Alma has never been one to downplay her own good qualities. She eyes Johanna, wearing a curiously mischievous smile. “In the spirit of romance, I’ll say you’re the second luckiest.”

Johanna prods her shoulder, a teasing little gesture. “Oh yeah, I can really feel the passion.”

This earns her a reprimand and a nudge in the ribs from Alma, who purses her lips, thinking it over, and then grins a little. “Let’s say the luck is evenly distributed tonight.”

“Wow. Damn, you are good at this. Put that one on the Valentine’s Day cards.” Johanna lies on her back and gazes up at the ceiling and laughs out loud at the thought, her arm around Alma’s waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric. She stifles her laughter in the soft floral cloth, face pressed against Alma’s collarbone. “Hey, I don’t have much practice with this, either. We’ll get better.”

“I suppose we will.” Alma concedes that point, at least, and finds herself getting comfortable in Johanna’s grasp, stroking her hair as she rests her head in the crook of Alma’s slender neck. Johanna’s core temperature is warmer than her own, and she’s all muscle and sleek curves. It’s comforting, in some strange primal way, for Alma to share her bed like this. For one, it’s a gesture of trust. Secondly, it’s an acknowledgement of a part of herself that she’s stifled for a very long time. Longer than her own recollection will allow, at least. “If I’m going to be honest with you, I have no practice.”

“What?” Johanna pushes herself up on one elbow, getting a better look at Alma. As far as she can tell, she’s being completely truthful -- gray eyes wide and gentle, the hard lines of her face relaxed into a soft pensive look. “You were _married.”_

“About that.” Alma sighs, lets out a slight breath, and finally explains. “I wouldn’t have been able to become president without a marriage. In a culture like District 13’s, with our low fertility rates and high infant mortality, there’s a strong emphasis on traditional families. For a woman to become president without a husband and child would have been hypocritical.” She shrugs, an expressive motion that says more than her words do. “So I married my best male friend, and adopted a recently orphaned baby a few years later, claiming infertility. It was a good arrangement. He and I loved each other as well as we could.”

Johanna inhales sharply. _“Oh.”_

“Do you understand now?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.” Johanna brings her into a gentle hug, a rare act of selfless compassion for her, but as straightforward as Alma’s admission is, it’s clearly difficult for her  to share this kind of information. “What happened exactly?”

Alma’s voice is quiet, her face pressed against Johanna’s shoulder. “She was a wonderful girl. Twelve years old when she died. She and my husband succumbed to the infection in the same week.” Her voice shakes a little, but is soon replaced by the tone of presidential authority, willpower taking hold over emotion. “There’s been very few deaths since then, thank goodness. Our outbreaks are mostly under control.”

“Holy shit, I’m sorry.” Johanna nuzzles her a little, a simple and clumsy gesture of affection. Clearly, though, she’s not the only one who’s newly adjusting to this type of situation. She wants to grip Alma tight and reassure her about everything, but she knows she wouldn’t appreciate that. Moderation is key. Besides, she’s horrible at expressing sympathy. “Okay, I’m glad you’ve got it handled. But, god, I’m--”

“Don’t be sorry. You weren’t involved.” Alma’s voice turns cool and calm again, falling back into her usual disciplinary mode. She seals off the vault of disclosure again, forcing the conversation to move onward. Brushing her hair out of her face, she looks Johanna in the eye. “So. I’ve had very little practice with any of this.”

“God damn. Not even a fling, or something?”

“I haven’t had the time for that, nor would I want to.”

“You sure do now.”

“This isn’t a _fling.”_

“Then what is it?”

“A partnership.”

“Fine.” Johanna grins, chewing at her lower lip a little. “You really _are_ all mine.”

Alma inclines her head slightly in a nod, squeezing Johanna’s hand. A mildly pensive expression plays across her face. “Do you understand my hesitation now?”

“Yeah. Let’s hope I’m not gonna disappoint.” And suddenly, the weight of responsibility descends on Johanna like an anvil falling from the ceiling. She’s dating the future president of Panem. Better not fuck this up. She stares up, swallowing hard. “Just gimme some kind of advance warning if I do.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I will, if I need to, which is unlikely.” The mood has changed. Alma dutifully leans over and turns off the lamp, plunging the room into dim light that’s seeping through from the kitchen and study. She’s finally feeling at ease, comfortable enough to relax properly. “Has anything gone severely wrong yet with us?”

“Not really.” Johanna compensates by pulling the blankets up around them, now caught in a tangled-up embrace with Alma, which is wonderful beyond words. “You say that like it might.”

“Well, if we survived this without a single fight, I’d honestly be astonished. Let’s be realistic. We’re both fond of arguing.” Alma still looks luminous in the dim light, glinting on her hair and casting her face into soft shadow. She slides one of the pillows to Johanna, letting her share. “But there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Damn straight. Just try not to win against me too often.” Johanna idly runs a hand over her body again underneath the covers, feeling the slight swell of her breasts and the lean curves of her hips. Alma bites her lip and squirms a little, eyes narrowing, and Johanna freezes; she’s already wilting slightly under the president’s mercilessly keen stare, and rapidly hunts for a topic of conversation, hand retreating to touch safer areas. “Anything interesting happening behind the scenes lately?”

“Nothing that you haven’t already heard about.” Alma’s torn on whether to disclose a recent development. She hasn’t got nearly as many nervous tics as Johanna, the product of years of training herself to be unreadable and calm, but the doubt is still visible in her expression. “I may as well tell you. There was an incident several months ago, something very severe. We’re planning to decide tomorrow on the correct course of action.”

“Yeah?” Johanna’s eyes light up with interest. Dirt from behind the scenes is always interesting, even if it’s not something she cares to actively hunt down, unlike others she could mention. “Some kinda scandal?”

“I wish. This is much more serious.” Alma settles in, getting cozy in Johanna’s arms, preparing to unfold her explanation. “It’s a matter of the state versus the individual, as well as an isolated incident. As you know, we’ve come under intense criticism for how closely we monitor citizens.”

“Yeah. Hey, as long as you guys don’t give me an ankle bracelet, I’m fine. Your monitoring’s a lot better than anything the Capitol’s ever done.”

“I’m afraid some people don’t have that standard of reference.” Alma sighs. She can’t help it. It’s maddening to see the same debates unfold over and over every year, with more vitriol added every single time. Now, at least, she can talk about the issue calmly and reasonably, with the distance of time as a soothing barrier. “Several months ago, we found out that one of our former soldiers was… unhinged. He was plotting to detonate an explosive during one of the Collective gatherings. He believed a drastic decrease in the population would let us rebuild aboveground again without being noticed.” She grimaces at the recollection. “Hundreds would have died. We’d never have found out about the plot if we didn’t monitor everyone. And yet our new refugees complain that someone is reading their text messages.”

It’s official; Johanna would _never_ want to be president. She gives Alma a gentle squeeze, reassuring her as best she can. “Pretty sure you’re doing the right thing. What’d you do with the guy?”

“He’s in our private prison. Where else were we supposed to put him? His family was notified, and he was dishonorably discharged, but the details of the plot weren’t made public, for fear of mass panic. We’ll decide on his sentencing tomorrow.”

“Makes sense. Didn’t know you guys had a private prison, but I guess that’s not surprising. I don’t think of a place like this as having criminals.” Johanna wonders out loud to herself. “It’s all so well-coordinated, like a damn machine. Never seen anything like it.”

“Yes, that’s intentional. We have no way to accommodate chaos or disorder, so we don’t allow it. Not everyone can survive under a system like this, though. It’s been a difficult adjustment for our refugees, I know that much. I’ve received more personal complaints this month than in the past three years combined.” Alma just looks weary of it all, for a fleeting moment. “Our septic system is struggling to process the load. Water consumption has nearly doubled. We can’t endure this for much longer. Half a year, at most.”

“We’ll be out of here soon. Give it a month. S’ gonna be fine.” Johanna’s voice slurs a little bit, a moment of exhaustion overtaking her before she snaps back to alertness again. “You and me, you’re gonna get Panem fixed up and then…” She yawns, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. “I’m gonna take you camping. You’ve never seen the wilderness, have ya?”

“I _have_ been outside.”

“Not for long, right?”

“Never more than a day.”

“See, there you go. I’m gonna show you all the scenic parts of District 7. There’s some real pretty places. You’ll love it.”

“Johanna, I can’t leave my duties.”

“Alma, once we win, you are gonna leave ‘em for a little while, or I’m gonna kidnap you to take you on vacation. Your call.”

“Mm.” Alma grumbles a little, pressing her face into Johanna’s shoulder. “I suppose I can allow myself a week of vacation after Panem is in functioning order.”

Johanna is relentless. “A week? More like a _month.”_

“Fine. Two weeks. I’ll compromise.”

“I can live with that.” Johanna hides a sleepy grin, succumbing more and more to the delectable warmth of the bed and the comforting touch of District 13’s best and only president. “And I’m takin’ you to breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll look forward to that.” Alma surprises her with several more kisses, powerful grip tangled in Johanna’s short hair to tilt her head back. Johanna savors it, licking her lips between kisses and inhaling deeply. Alma smells good, a light, spare floral scent, and tastes good, too. All Johanna can do is enjoy. “For now, go to sleep. You’re obviously exhausted.”

“What?” Johanna protests faintly, sprawled out flat on the bed, her grasp on Alma weakening by the moment. “No, I’m jus’ fine.”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Couple hours.”

“I suppose the caffeine’s wearing off now.”

A pause, and a yawn. “Might be.”

“Please, just sleep, if you need it.” Alma shifts so she’s resting on top of Johanna, effectively preventing her from moving beneath her lest she disturb the petite president. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“Really?” Johanna blinks and mumbles into the pillow. “Thought you’d be up and out of here by six AM.”

“Not if I can help it.” Alma’s mouth quirks upward a little in a smirk. Oh, the things people expect. Johanna ought to know better, but they’re both learning. “And tomorrow, I’ll be glad to dispel any other misconceptions you have about me. _Tomorrow.”_

Johanna’s passed out before she even hears it.

Alma smiles a little, wistful, and closes her eyes, blankets draped loosely around her and her head tucked under the other’s chin. She’s completely at ease now, held fast in Johanna’s arms. This feels natural, delightful, a privilege that they both have fully earned. “Good night, my dear.”

The last thought on her mind before she’s out cold is a vague but lovely dream about camping, a night spent with Johanna under the open sky.


End file.
